I know you’re going to say I’m an idiot. Rule number one of dating over the internet (or an app, in this case) is that you meet in a public place, at least for the first time. You’re supposed to make sure the other person isn’t a serial killer before you give them your address.
But that seems so prudish.
I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, I was looking for some really good sex. The whole formal date thing seemed unnecessary, a step that had to be taken by dumb people who weren’t as good as I was in judging people’s characters. And, I was being pretty discerning because even if I only wanted sex, I had to be attracted to the guy, and that means he has to give me some good conversation before I’m going to decide to meet up with him.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been on a dating app, but this weeds out like 95% of guys. They all have the same fantasy: they want to show up at my door and fuck without talking. It’s the whole stranger thing. You have to understand that I’m not interested in that. It does nothing to turn me on. I tell them all straight up that I need them to have some kind of rapport with me. I want them feel like a human person and not just some sex doll.
So, we talk first. I invite them over. We watch Arrested Development. We start touching each other — we make out and then we feel good enough to go to my bedroom. Maybe we watch more Arrested Development after (god knows I don’t like it when they run out the door the second the deed is done). He leaves, I go to bed. A good night is had by all.
Jamie was supposed to be the same as all these other guys. I’d met enough people from the internet to feel confident about my ability to weed out psychos. I was consistently pleasantly surprised by the guys I invited over who turned out to be respectful, fun human beings who were usually pretty good at all the sex stuff too.
Jamie’s pictures were so normal I almost didn’t even start a conversation with him, I thought he’d be too boring.
He reached out to me after we matched. He asked specific questions about some of the interests I listed in my profile. We hit it off. I thought I could sense he was a decent guy. He even seemed cautious about meeting me, which felt like a total green light. So, after twenty five minutes of rapid-fire back and forth, I invited him over to my one-bedroom apartment in an urban (but residential) neighborhood about thirty minutes from where he said he lived, out in the burbs.
I was very nervous, but I always was. The little pit in my stomach I mistook for butterflies as I always paced back and forth a little bit and sometimes even made a cocktail when I was trying to relax before a new guy came over. I tidied up my apartment, remade my bed, changed into some cute loungewear and applied some “I’m not wearing makeup” makeup.
And then Jamie messaged me that he was here.
I walked down to the front door of my building and there was a man there who looked nothing like “Jamie”.
The thing about being a woman is that pleasing people is in your blood. From a young age you’re taught that not being liked by a guy is the worst possible thing. No one tells you why this is so bad, or even what would happen that’s so terrible about a guy not liking you. You just have this instinct to do it. It’s hard to go against.
So I saw this guy down there, and I had studied Jamie’s Tinder photos for the last hour since we started talking. I knew it wasn’t the same guy and I was confused about it. But I also didn’t turn around and go lock myself in my apartment. I did the stupid thing. I did the thing that women do and I went down and opened the door and smiled at him. I said “you must be Jamie, I’m Lane” and smiled some more. I walked him up the stairs and into my apartment and told him he didn’t need to take his shoes off. “I’m not that fancy.”
And then, suddenly, I was alone in my apartment with a complete stranger.
This guy was scrawnier than the pictures, he looked rougher around the edges, too. Not the clean cut, relatable bro I usually go for. He paced around my apartment, wanting to immediately see all the rooms and know what the layout was. His energy was scattered and frenetic.
“You’ve got a nice place here.”
“Thank you. Do you want to sit on the couch?”
“Why don’t we just go to bed?
(This was such a sleazy moment I immediately knew I wasn’t interested. Beyond whatever Catfish move he pulled to lie about his appearance, this guy just didn’t have any game).
“Um, I’d rather talk for a little bit. Can we sit on my couch?
“No Lane, we’re going to go to bed now.”
He was leering at me. Flexing some kind of unpleasant power he thought he had over me, like what he said was law — like there’d be consequences if I didn’t go along with his whims.
And that’s when I knew this night was going to be different. I said I was only interested in sex tonight, but here was this giant rape-y douchebag presenting himself to me like a gift with a bow wrapped around it, begging for me to open it. He was a bad person. He probably did this all the time. He probably hurt people.
So, I fucking killed him.
It was fun to turn the tables. I told him I’d give him a massage if he took a shower first. I’m kind of a clean freak, you know. It’s so much easier to clean up when you confine most of the mess to the tub and the tile. He got naked and climbed in the shower, I drew the curtain closed and told him I’d join him in a minute, I was going to make drinks for us first.
I went to the kitchen to get a knife and I heard him singing in the shower. What a psycho.
I wonder if he was ever afraid in the shower the way I am sometimes when the curtain is closed and you aren’t certain what’s going on in the outside world anymore. Women are trained to think this way. We realize our compromised senses because of the pouring water and the opaqueness of the shower curtain could be our downfall, we’re always aware of when we’re in danger.
He probably wasn’t scared. He probably had no idea what it was like to fear what people might do to you constantly. I guess I’ll never know.
I read Susan Aitkins of Manson family fame talking about what it was like to stab people once. She said it was like stabbing a pillow, humans are surprisingly soft.
You have to be quick with the first stab, make sure they are mortally injured, especially when they’re bigger than you. I always go for the side and make sure I get it in deep, the long way. There’s no bones to stop you there. Once they stop fighting, that’s when you can go for the heart, although I prefer to just let them bleed out. If you miss and get their lungs they’re aspirating blood everywhere.
Jamie was fun to kill. It was fun to see him be scared. It was fun to watch him die and know that he was realizing what a wasted little life he led.
No one ever makes a lot of noise. That’s movie stuff. They just gargle and flop around.
The big problem is always the body. I live in an apartment. On the second floor. But it’s quiet enough, no one’s really in the hallway in the middle of the night so into my extra large rolling dufflebag they go. They always fit. I slide the bag down the stairs and then roll it to my trunk. The trick is that it’s tall enough to use as a lever, so you can kind of slide it in by pressing on the top first, until the end lifts up off the ground. Then you just shove. The bodies go into the river, the suitcases get burned. They’re expensive though, so it’s a pricey operation. I’d find something cheaper if I wasn’t so stuck on the need for utility.
I’m trying to cut down on killing people. I know you think it’s a “bad” thing to do but try to be honest with yourself for one tiny minute: ridding the world of pieces of shit like this is a net positive for all of us. I’m like a fucking secret superhero here.
What people don’t talk about when they say it’s “wrong” to kill people is that fuckboys aren’t really people, right?
I just like doing it, to be honest. I like showing men what it’s like to really be afraid. I am trying to cut down though. I really was just looking for a hookup on Tinder tonight. I’m going to be scrubbing the bathroom instead now. Maybe tomorrow I can find someone better.